She'd won. She could see it in his eyes—angry but resigned. Scrubbing his hands over his face, into his hair, he dropped to the foot of the bed.

He really was exhausted, sore from shots and weary in his heart over her sister, too. Over the end of their relationship, as well?

Out of the blue a memory filtered through the anger and pain, of the times he'd rubbed her feet after a long surgery. How could she have forgotten that?

His hands slid from his face to clasp loosely between his knees while he studied the patternless carpet. "I'll start the paperwork this morning. You'll have orders in hand by close of business."

Victory mingled with a chilly twist of loss as she stared at his weary broad shoulders that, because of her, wouldn't be resting anytime soon. "Jack, thank—"

Slowly he looked up, eyes hard, unrelenting. "Don't thank me. I have conditions."

Uh-oh. He wouldn't actually ask her to sleep with him after all? Dread and, damn it, arousal pulsed through her.

"You don't leave my side while we're there."

"I'm not sharing quarters—"

"Fine."

Man, he gave that part up easily. She punted aside ridiculous disappointment. "What do you mean, exactly?"

"Whenever I'm on the ground and awake, you're right there with me. And no Lone Ranger crap riding in to save your sister solo. You're only there as a part of the medical team to assess the hostages and tend any wounded afterward. We have medics for the battlefield."

Her toes curled in her boots. His conditions chafed since they wouldn't have applied to anyone else, but this was his show. He made the rules. "Okay. Anything else?"

Jack stood, took one step, another, until he stopped chest to chest with her in the small room. A single deep breath would press her aching br**sts to him. What had she just committed herself to?

"Jack?" She pushed his name free, not sure if she was asking or begging.

"That's it, Monica." His mouth pulled up at the corners in a slow smile that creased his eyes without reaching them. "Now get the hell out of my room, because we both know it wouldn't take much effort for me to talk you into this bed after all."

Inching away to grab her bag, she didn't even consider answering. No need since, damn his sexy smile and tender sweet foot massages, he spoke the total truth.

"Crew, feet wet," Jack called through his headset. "Crossing out of U.S. airspace."

The Atlantic rippled below and ahead of him, the mission under way with Monica on the roster and flying in the plane behind him. Her voice filled the radio waves as she spoke with one of the other planes in formation. Filled his ears. His mind.

They hadn't been alone together in the thirty-six hours following their confrontation. Not that it made any difference since she'd blasted back into his life.

Multiple voices drifted through the headset, calls from his crew, from other planes in formation. Just his luck, he had the radio toggled up to Monica's frequency. While she wasn't a pilot, as a flight surgeon she could ride up front in the jump seat, complete with helmet and headset, had in fact flown with him often in the past.

Before he made the dumb-ass, drunken mistake of marrying her.

Now she flew with Joker's crew. Talked. Her sandpaper drawl riding radio waves. Exchanging crew dog camaraderie and laughing at something Joker said. Irritation—ah, hell, who was he kidding—jealousy chewed his hide. Joker, for crying out loud, the least funny man on earth, his call sign a sarcastic commentary on his somber mood.

Already she was a great big distraction and they hadn't set foot in Rubistan.

Jack scanned the altimeter, adjusted his airspeed to compensate for a headwind as clouds dusted his windscreen. At least he'd salvaged something from the conversation with Monica. Hell, yeah, he preferred to keep her away from Rubistan, but he didn't doubt for a minute she would go with or without him.

So he was stuck with her.

He'd wanted more time after their impulsive quickie wedding to see where things went, but not this way. Monica had insisted staying married would make a further mockery of what should be sacred vows. Well, she had him there.

Problem was, he hadn't wanted something more than a one-night stand with a woman in a damned long time. He found the idea of wanting Monica again—and again—difficult to cut loose.

No question she packed a hefty dose of brains under that silky head of hair. However, she underestimated his patience and persistence. He intended to use this time to the fullest to settle things once and for all.

He stifled a laugh. Great. He couldn't win her over with roses, restaurants and European settings at his disposal. How the hell did he expect to rekindle sputtering feelings in the middle of the desert with mess hall chow and humpbacked camels for ambience?

"How's your 'wife,' man?" Rodeo piped in from the copilot's seat on private interphone.

Jack's hand clenched around the stick. Damned lucky he didn't shoot them off course and more than lucky they were on the secured interphone so Monica couldn't hear them. Just in time, he remembered his buddy was only referring to the maid's reference. "You're a riot."

"Come on, Cobra. Details. I'm going through a dry spell. Your love life's all that's carrying me through."

"Then you're in hurting shape, my man."

"Ah-hh." Rodeo nodded, reaching into his flight bag, pulling out a shrink-wrapped deli package. "You're doing that honorable no-kiss-and-tell thing." He unwrapped the plastic from around his lunch, exposing a corner of a pita bulging with sprouts.

Sprouts? Pita? The guy liked gourmet, but in bulky, meaty helpings. "Nothing to tell. When did you start eating rabbit food?"

"Since Lilly at the Rio's cigar bar offered to make me some at her place." Grinning, he tore off a corner.

"Going through a dry spell, my ass."

Rodeo smirked.

"Lilly? Way to go hanging on to her name."

"Wrote it on my hand," he answered between bites.

Jack snorted, grateful for the shift into safer conversational territory.

Sun glinted off the windscreen, puffy clouds stroking the sky without a hint of murky threats. Perfect weather and atmosphere for flying. No challenge. Boring. He flicked on autopilot.

Rodeo chewed through half his pita. "Coulda knocked me flat when I saw Hyatt walk into the briefing room."

Damn. The guy had a radar lock on the subject. Jack shadowed the moving stick with his hand and stayed silent.

"I thought for sure that woman waiting for you would be someone else. I mean, hell, whatever happened in Vegas a few months ago seemed to end it. Could detonate bombs with the looks you two throw at each other the few times you actually stay in the same room together."

"Okay, okay. I get the picture." She couldn't stand the sight of him. Like he needed a reminder of that. Much more of this and he would be ready to surrender and sign the divorce papers now.

Jack's gaze drifted to the multifunction display. The formation of planes blipped a reminder of how he'd failed to keep her in the States. Good thing that while he could hear her voice on the open frequency, she couldn't hear the private interphone discussion. Even so, time to redirect Rodeo's mental radar. "Like who?"

"Who what?"

"Who did you think was waiting for me?"

Adjusting the five-point harness belting him to the seat, Rodeo settled in for his recounting. "Well, at first I decided she was probably military, because of where we were. Then I remembered how that stripper from Barcelona worked her way into your room last year."

"That was your room."

"Oh, yeah. What about the British kindergarten teacher, uh, what was her name?"

"Elizabeth."

"Yeah, her. Damn, you're good with names. Anyhow, she sure as shit wasn't waiting for me."

Jack couldn't even remember what she looked like anymore since Monica's full lips and green eyes congested his mind. "Haven't seen her in eleven months."

"Well, if Doc's back in the picture and tossing around that 'wife' word—" Rodeo swiped a stray sprout off his flight suit ''—guess somebody should tell the Elizabeths waiting around air shows looking for a flyboy that you're off the circuit for good. I'll have to hang with Joker, and hell, he's no fun. If he ever smiled, his face would crack."

Yet Joker seemed a damned laugh a minute talking to Monica.

Jack shrugged through tension kinks. Damn it, making her laugh was his role. Even if his humor was MIA these days. "You can hold off on corralling Joker to be your designated driver. Monica and I are not back together."

God, if she sniffed out the least hint he planned to use this time to get under her skin for a second chance, she'd run like hell. Figured when he finally opted to drop back into the world of serious relationships, he picked the most skittish woman in the free world.

"Ah, so the two of you just hung out and chatted about old times in that room all by yourselves with a big ole bed."

Sadly, yes. "She wanted on this flight for obvious reasons regarding her sister. Was pissed at me for not including her." Understatement. "End of story."

Humor faded from Rodeo's eyes. "Hey, man, that blows. No wonder you're cranky as hell. You know what? Why wait till the Braves' game to party? I've got a line on this great club in Germany, positively crawling with pilot groupies who can't wait to climb all over a guy in a flight suit. We'll be stopping over on our way back for at least a couple of days."

"No thanks." Depending on how things shook down with Monica, he'd either be a very happy, sated man or ready for a three-day drinking binge— his first since the night after Tina's funeral.

Which said more about Monica's importance in his life than he wanted to admit. He flicked off autopilot. "Rodeo, if you're ready to log some flight time, I'd like to step in back to check in with Colonel Cullen about new satellite feed images on the drop zone."

Rodeo wadded his empty lunch sack. "No problem."

Jack's grip tightened around the stick as he waggled it lightly. "Ready, Rodeo, do you have the jet?"

The copilot wiggled the stick in tandem response to signify control. "Copy, Cobra. I've got the jet."

"Be back in a few." He reached to unplug his headset. Monica's voice echoed again. His hand paused. Her voice swirled around in his ears and head until she might as well have been sitting next to him.

And she wasn't doing anything more than talking with a Ranger medic in one of the other planes about... what?

"Roger that," she answered. "Apply the butterfly bandages and I'll check it out once we land."

Jack thumbed the radio call button. "Budweiser two-five, this is Budweiser two-one. Is there a problem? Over."

Monica's wry laugh cut the airwaves. "No problem, Cobra. A private popped the canister on his gas mask filter and cut his hand. Doesn't sound too bad, though. I'll let you know after I see him. Over."

Over. Yeah, it sure looked that way for them.

The airwaves crackled, Monica-free. Not that it helped. It didn't matter whether she was in his plane, another plane or across the damn ocean. She was in him, with him.

Jack unbuckled and shoved up from his seat. Tucking around and into the stairwell, he gave himself a mental head-thunk. Their showdown after the wedding—once they'd sobered up—had left him positive they were through, certain enough to confirm her appointment with an attorney on the first date they were both scheduled to be back home at Charleston AFB.

Except he wasn't like her, able to segment his life and feelings into neat Ziploc bags or folded packages with clips. He didn't know what the hell he was feeling, except that so much spun inside him along with her voice that he wanted time to let it all settle out.

Boot thuds echoed down the last step, the belly of the plane sprawling, the metal cavern packed full of communications equipment and paratroopers in DCUs—desert camouflage uniforms. He had two weeks with Monica either to figure out what went wrong and fix it so they stood a chance of her being Monica Korba. Or decide how to put Monica Hyatt out of his head.

Clear mind-set. Simple enough.

Except somehow either task seemed tougher to accomplish than dodging antiaircraft fire while offloading a cargo hold of Rangers into a terrorist compound.

Clearing the last step in the aircraft stairwell, Monica stared out the yawning opening as the ramp lowered to unload the paratroopers onto the tarmac in Rubistan. That same widening portal offered a crystal-clear view of Jack's C-17 parked a few yards away. Tip to tail, 174 feet long with 169 feet of wingspan, it dominated the landscape with its impressive power and size much the same way Jack filled her mind.

She ducked through the side hatch to the stairs leading out into the blinding desert sun. A mild blast from the eighty-degree spring day hit her, preferable to the frigid temps of night or sweltering heats of high noon.

Slowly the decrepit airfield came into focus. Oil stains mottled the cracked parking area. Gritty wind howled across the endless expanse of desert and rock with gusts not daunted in the least by the two-story main building. Sand scraped against peeling paint while the sun baked until the color had blurred to nondescript beige with time. Built in the fifties perhaps, the abandoned terminal extended with rusted hangars spoking off to the sides.

Functional.

Gripping the handrail, she descended, feet finally hitting asphalt. She blinked until her eyes finished adjusting. Rubistan, where her sister waited not more than two hundred miles away. Her boots itched to storm the compound now, to save her sister from one more minute of hell. Not wise, of course.

She needed some of Jack's patience. And if that failed her, she'd lose herself in work. She plowed through the press of people. Surely the medivac team monitoring in-processing could use an extra pair of hands. Monica threaded through the crowd streaming from the back of the cargo planes, Army troopers in tan DCUs mixed with crew dogs in desert-tan flight suits.

Jack.

His flight suit might be covering every inch of him, but her memory blazed with the image of him striding away from her. Naked. Muscle and man. Once her man.

Bodies jostled around her in an organized pandemonium of sweat and voices, gear and guns. Problem was, she genuinely liked the guy. How could she not? Funny, hot, too damned courageous for his own good.

If only he could apply his attention to detail in the workplace to a relationship, but in day-to-day life, details rolled over him. Problems? What problems? For Jack, they simply didn't exist. Will it so, smile, and problems took care of themselves.